black flower.

of April Morales

Sometimes I reflect on the shore of the violet sea about being late, just like this time. I ask myself, “am I late to experience the flutters the others feel when someone holds them or grasps their fingers?” I draw a circle on the sand to mirror the cycle I am in. I have closed myself from availability; too afraid that what comes from the outside of my box will only destroy than nurture me. Or is it that I have the bars too high to reach for anyone? I hope not. I will consider this as fear the–of being spoken by another’s mouth or being called by another’s attention. For years that I have locked myself in my own asylum, I have forgotten to see the sun or even how hot it feels. I can only imagine its beauty, but never its feeling. As the waves crash on the shore in this afternoon, I look at the couple, too far from my reach on my right, with longing. They are drenched in sweet syrup and, like the curse embedded in heart, I can only feel anything, but happiness for them. I have watered myself into a flower filled with sorrow and selfishness. And now that I am here, I do not know how to kill it.


WORD COUNT: 217

Thank you for reading this story. If you want to talk about random things with me, do not hesitate to reach me through my “Contact” page. All the best love, my dear.

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